


Dead Eyes

by MsrTenOverSix



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, Fix-It, Gen, M/M, No one who dies here ever really dies., POV Multiple, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), Science Fiction, Short Chapter Warning, Something Isn't Right, Starts vague but answers will come.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:13:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24360403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsrTenOverSix/pseuds/MsrTenOverSix
Summary: What you see in the Deadlights never leaves you, not really.
Relationships: Basically just canon stuff, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 8
Kudos: 17





	1. Life's a Beach

Sunlight dances red behind her eyelids, dapples across her shoulders, a hint too warm but exactly right beneath a perfect, coastal breeze. She has always loved the beach; the sand, the sun, the water, the waves, the rush of constant movement, it all instills in her a sense of calm that had eluded her for nearly 30 years. But she tries not to think of that, of those 30 years that felt like a complete waste in her mind, an endless desert that stretched ominous and silent –

Silent.

That is when she realizes – the cry of gulls, the laughter of children, the roar of the ocean, all things are absent now. Her eyes open then, sudden like the final beat of a drum. The sun is gone, the world is gone, replaced by an endless white. Or, perhaps not. The color of this plain eludes her now, but her eyes don’t burn, and she doesn’t feel blind. She just feels like she’s staring at something so vast she cannot comprehend.

She’d been laying on her stomach, she could have sworn, but now she’s flat on her back. The ground beneath her still feels like a towel draped over sand, and she swears even now she can feel the waves beating against it, through it, like a pulse that moves beneath her fingertips. She’s tempted to turn her head, to look, but there’s a strange lethargy about this place, a dissonance from reality.

She’s laying there, almost trapped but not quite, in something that seems both endless and timeless, and there’s no knowing how long she’s been there, when a prickling starts to settle against the edge of her face. An uneasy sensation, that something is beside her, something she should be paying attention to, but that she’d forgotten in this haze.

Eventually, the sensation of loss is too much, a growing dread searing her insides, and she looks over, and immediately sits up.

Eddie.

Eddie looking just like she remembers (but clean and without the injuries and gore).

He’s not more than a few meters away, sitting and staring out at the white, as if he too were beside some endless expanse of ocean. If he’s noticed her at all, he doesn’t show it.

“Eddie.” It’s a scream or a whisper that escapes, and that’s exactly the word for it, the way it claws free of her throat. She can’t feel her heart beating, but it feels like its pressing against her ribs, her whole being ready to burst.

He blinks, his brow furrowing, as if confused, and it strikes her how empty he had looked a moment ago. His face turns, settling on hers, and for a moment there’s nothing – no spark of recognition. Then, his face clears, his eyes reflect _something_ , and then, _then_ , “Bev.”

A smile on the edge of his face, genuine, if somewhat worn, and she loves him.

She wants to laugh, to cry, to hug him, cling to him, to something more than what she’s doing now. But again she feels lethargy. She feels ancient, or maybe this place is ancient, and it’s rubbing off on her. Sitting up had taken nothing from her, and yet was a world more than what she could do now. She manages to pull her knees up, at least, sitting properly.

She looks at him, really looks, and everything about him is so clear, every line in his face, the shadows beneath his eyes, the lightness of his smile, the tension to his shoulders.

“You’re alright.” Her voice, soft and awed, almost fragile. 

His eyes crinkle, his mirth visible but subdued as every else seems to be here. His grin has turned wry, “No, but that’s okay.”

She remembers then, why she was so amazed, so relieved. The hope in her chest sinks, a dead weight in her gut. Dead. Still dead.

Just a dream then.

“We really miss you.” She says, choking on what to say, what to keep to herself. She feels on the verge of tears, might be crying already, if not for the vague suspicion that lifting a hand to her face would find nothing but dry eyes. This place is too ancient for tears.

“I–” His voice falters, and he looks hesitant then. A moment later it’s like something has left his eyes, like a seeping void has opened within them, and she feels its chill seeping in like a drug. He turns away, his gaze returning to the far-off nothingness.

“What’s it like?” She murmurs, surprised at the audacity of her own words. They hardly feel like hers, but then, who has perfect control over their own dreams? The air feels thick now, dense. Like a dream; like something haunted. Vaguely, the earth beats beneath her, a steady heartbeat like waves in the sand. She recalls a beach, remembers laying on the sand, once upon a time.

_What’s it like? Dying. Being dead._

She hears him inhale beside her, feels it move through her like a sudden gust of air, pulling her to him. It doesn’t feel right. Her eyes open. When had she closed them? When had she even looked away? She looks back at Eddie, and every thought vanishes from her mind.

He’s not looking at her, his eyes just barely averted. Hunching in on himself now, he’s curled up, small as he was when he was a child. She can see the tendons in his neck, the tension radiating from him in a way that’s both familiar and something she’s never seen. He exhales, shaking, like he’s on the edge of a sob. His chest is a gaping, dark mess. Blood drips from his mouth, hits the ground and spreads like perfect, crimson flowers.

“God, Bev, it’s so fucking scary.”

* * *

She awakes with a jolt, back to her bedroom, to her life. Beside her, Ben is quiet and serene.

She stares up into the darkness and see only bright splatters of blood.


	2. In Between Now and Then

“I wrote you a letter.”

The words come in a moment of clarity. Time doesn’t really seem to pass here; in this place they haven’t bothered to name. But something must exist here, because they _exist._ At least on some level. And there’s something that changes here, a haze that descends upon them like a gentle breeze. Interspersed by moments of shocking lucidity. They’re in the latter state now, the moment of sensation before the fugue. They don’t always hit it together, just like how they’re not always together. There had been a lot of panic, in those earlier times, before they became accustomed to the disappearances and moments of staring into glassy, unresponsive eyes.

Something is ancient here, and it tells them not to worry. That they’ll see each other again. That nothing lasts forever, even in eternity. It’s both wonderful and terrifying. And maybe its just lying, but they do see each other, time and again.

“What?”

Even still, listening here is something of a challenge. Eddie finds himself so lost in thought, when almost nothing but thought exists. Sometimes, he’s grateful for when the roiling nothing arrives, when he doesn’t have to think or maybe even exist. It feels like a reprieve.

“I wrote you a letter.”

Stan says it with the modicum of ire he’d held his entire life, at least whenever it came to repeating himself to the Losers. Which was a bit rude, but Eddie really couldn’t fault him for that. Eddie has always been more than a bit rude himself. 

“A letter?” He repeats this, weighs it in his mind a moment before understanding, “Oh.” Doesn’t know quite what to say, then, “What’d it say?”

“Some inspirational shit,” Stan laughs, just a little, grin rueful as he looks at his own hands. Sometimes the blood it there, sometimes it isn’t. “About living the life you want to live.”

“Oh… that’s really nice, man.” Eddie is actually a little touched. He can’t remember ever hearing those words from anyone else before. He’d never spent much time around people that wanted him to make his own decisions.

He can’t remember the last time someone asked what he wanted. He can’t remember the last time _he_ cared about what he wanted.

He wonders, idly, what happened to the letter. If it was thrown away, unopened somewhere, or shredded like junk mail. He liked to picture it burning, though he doesn’t think that's standard procedure anymore. He hopes his own body was burnt, but he’s fairly sure his body ended up the opposite of incinerated. Still it's a nice thought, burnt to ash.No one mourns dust.

 _It's cold and dark_.

There’s an ache in his chest, or something like it. He absently rubs at it with his hand and wonders just what he’s missing. Dark, dark fabric pressed wet and tight to his skin. For a moment, his fingertips pass through rough edges, and his mind goes startingly blank.

What he wanted will never matter. Just as well that he can’t really remember what it was. He hopes he wanted something nice, once.

He blinks and loses that trail of thought, glancing over at Stan, knows his own eyebrows are pinched because that’s the only way he’s ever known how to be.

“Did you…were you happy?” He feels weird saying it, considering how it ended. He ended. They ended.

Stan is quiet a moment, and he doesn’t really look back at Eddie, staring off into that invisible shoreline they both know exists.

“Yeah, I liked my life.”

The words are simple, and neither say anything else about that. Because what can be said?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continue? 
> 
> TBH, most of the Stan and Eddie dialogue I write just turns into them making horrible, off-color jokes:
> 
> “I can’t believe you got tattoos.”  
> “Fuck you, dickwad.”  
> “How’d you even get that close to a needle?”  
> “I’m not afraid of fucking needles.”   
> “Only because you probably had every vaccine ever known to man or dog.”  
> “Fuck you!”  
> “That was it, wasn’t it? They wouldn’t give you any more vaccinations, but you couldn’t let it go, so you got tattoos instead?”  
> “That doesn’t even make sense!”  
> “Sure it does. Do you have, like, a needle fetish?”  
> “Shut the fuck up.”  
> "Avoiding the question just makes you look worse, you know that, right?"


	3. Shut Up, I'm Driving

“I nominate Eddie.”

The words spoken behind him, so sudden and blunt, just make his eyes roll this time around.

“Yeah, very funny, asshole.” He means his return to be blithe, or as blithe as his normal sour tone can ever be.

Instead, the words are spat with such venom, with such vehemence, that they leave him like a punch to the gut, and he’s left feeling seasick on shore. It’s more than he’s felt this entire time, since…since…

“I nominate Eddie.” The words repeat, dangerous yet removed like an echo of thunder. He doesn’t turn around.

“Yeah.” He pauses, his voice distant to his own ears, “Yeah, you already said that part…”

He drifts off as something drips, hitting his face. He blinks, aware now that he’s in the dark, but not the void of emptiness he’s accustomed to, it’s just a dark place, but his eyes are quickly adjusting to the light. It’s cold here, and the building light is almost blue, reflecting the jagged edges of stone and grit. Water pools dark and thick, moves sluggishly down the walls like sap.

Another drip, from some unseen light source above, hits him on the forehead. Instantly compelled to movement, he wipes this one away, stares down at a hand smeared red.

Not water. Blood. He’s oddly perturbed by this realization, but only in the way that a person is thrown off by an unexpected rainstorm.

His gaze flickers back to his surroundings, cast in haunting light and vivid shadow. The walls keeps shifting though, like an unseen lightning storm is just at his back. It takes him a moment to place it, this place, to remember it.

It’s the sewers. Or something like it. He feels bile in his throat, a pain in his chest, a dull throbbing he can’t recall having felt before. It’s the sewers, but yet it’s not. This was something deeper. This was a cavern, a gaping monstrosity of unimaginable light and ageless evil. What was he doing here?

 _Dead_. Something says, but it doesn’t help. That word, it hardly means anything at all.

He feels a pull at his spine, like being thrown into the ground, and that’s exactly where he is, pressed against the rocks, pinned. He feels something build in his throat, in his mouth, hot and thick. It escapes, trailing over his lips and down his chin.

His eyes open, and he wonders, wonders when he closed them. Why is he always opening his eyes? Why do they keep closing?

He sees Richie, standing over him, looming. He’s looking down, and not just because he’s taller -fuck him- but because Eddie is lying on the ground. 

Richie crouches in front of him, pale and wane, eyes half there.

“I nominate Eddie.” Richie says, again, but this time it’s a whisper.

And Eddie wants to scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A baby chapter. I have most of the rest drafted up, but felt this was better by itself? I don't know, the flow was off. This chapter will make more sense with the next...two, at least. Eventually, things will even start happening. But given how short my chapters are, it's a bit of a slow start, so sorry for that. I really do have actual plans for this. 
> 
> Do you like it? Should I continue? Richie POV would be next, followed by Stan.

**Author's Note:**

> Continue? Review and let me know what you think.


End file.
